Eulogy
by krazykitkat
Summary: The third migraine since New York. POST-EP to "Posse Comitatus"


TITLE: Eulogy  
Post-ep to "Posse Comitatus"  
AUTHOR: Katrina McDonnell  
EMAIL: mcdonnem@tpg.com.au  
SPOILERS: Posse Comitatus and the rest of the Simon episodes.  
RATING: PG-13  
DISCLAIMER: The West Wing and its characters are the property of   
Aaron Sorkin, Warner Brothers, and NBC. No Copyright Infringement   
is intended. I will put them back slightly disheveled.   
ARCHIVE: Sure, but please ask first.  
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A post-ep for an episode I won't see for over a   
month. Feels a little weird! Just as well I saw "Enemies Foreign and   
Domestic" before I finished the story. Would have felt even weirder   
finishing it without even catching a glimpse of the man.   
THANKS: To Rhonda for encouragement, editing and a couple of gems.   
And to Kat.   
SUMMARY: The third migraine since New York.  
  
  
  
Screw it.  
  
Should have left at the first sign of hand tingling. There would have   
been a large enough window of time to make it to bed before the   
splotches started.  
  
Remove contacts. Feel around in desk drawer and hope it's the right   
bottle. No way can make out the label and the rest of the world has   
gone home to their lives.   
  
Damn childproof caps to hell. Must ask President to outlaw them.  
  
Could try smashing the bottle open, but no hand coordination and can't   
see far enough to find something heavy. Would probably just break   
hand anyway.  
  
Where's a Secret Service Agent when you need one? Life and death   
emergency and they're off buying a Milky Way.  
  
"Hey! You really shouldn't throw pill bottles through open doors."  
  
This night just keeps getting better. Don't want to see him, splotchy   
or otherwise.  
  
"Well, that'll teach you to stand in my doorway. And if you rattle them   
again, I'll shove it down your throat."  
  
"Headache?"  
  
Roll eyes. "What makes you think that?"  
  
He's got the magic touch and recognises a rhetorical question. Two pills   
and a bottle of water appear, swallow quickly. A moment of gratefulness.   
"Migraine straight from the seven circles of hell. Retribution for that   
village I pillaged back in 861AD."  
  
"And yet you can still talk in interesting sentences."  
  
Get up slowly. "What are you doing here?" Walk around side of desk,   
make sure head doesn't fall off. "The lid is on. In fact I'm about to bolt   
down the lid. There isn't going to be any more news from this office   
ever. Though you probably won't notice, you make it up anyway." Shooting   
pain up right shin...just brilliant. Who the hell moved that table.  
  
"Sit down on the couch, CJ."  
  
Somehow holding onto head and shin isn't convincing him to leave. Don't   
want to ask for help, but also don't want any more run ins with inanimate   
objects. Too many bruises to count. Give in. "I would if I could see it."  
  
Firm hands guide, plump cushions, pull up blanket. Horizontal is good.  
  
"I'll be back in a minute."  
  
Lights off, cold cloth on forehead, chair dragged next to couch. Can just   
make out his shape through the mosaic. Don't ever want to be vertical   
again.  
  
"How often do you have migraines?"  
  
"Third since--in the last week."  
  
"Since New York?"  
  
Bastard. Trying to dig dirt. "Get out of my office and don't ever talk to   
me--" Shouldn't have sat up so quickly.  
  
Head over hastily grabbed trash can, one hand holding hair, other rubbing   
back. Rest forehead against his knees between heaves. Rinse mouth, lie   
back down carefully.  
  
"Please go." Whisper.  
  
"I'm not leaving you alone like this. Do you need a doctor?"   
  
Don't shake head. "No."  
  
"I'll take you home."  
  
"Moving vehicle not a bright idea."  
  
"You'll have to put up with me then." Immovable tone.  
  
"Danny."  
  
"CJ. I'm here as a friend, nothing more. No notebook or pen or tape   
recorder."  
  
"I'll have to take your word for that, I can't see."  
  
"I promise. Remember when we used to be friends and you'd talk to me   
about what was worrying you?"  
  
"I miss that." Tiny voice.  
  
"So do I. Just rest."  
  
Breathing. Too quiet. Trapped alone in the pain.  
  
"He was supposed to meet me for drinks."  
  
Concern. "You sure you want to talk?"  
  
Certainty. "I want--need to."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Tingling starting in lips and tongue.   
  
"Ron Butterfield told me. Pulled me out of the play. I thought they'd   
made a mistake about the stalker and I had to take back the protection   
detail and Simon was just avoiding the initial eruption."  
  
Touch required. Reach blindly. Fingers curl.  
  
"It was all over. Stalker, conflict of interest...have you noticed I seem   
to have a problem with conflicts of interest?"  
  
Thumb rubs across knuckle.  
  
"Nah."  
  
"Blue-eyed conflicts of interest."  
  
"Make sure your therapist has brown."  
  
Smile despite self. Eyes screw tight in pain. Try to sit up.  
  
"Hey, what are you doing?"  
  
Flail hand, hit his knee in the process.  
  
"Water and pills."  
  
"You sure? You've got nothing in your stomach."  
  
Whimper. "Yeah."  
  
Hand supports elbow. Please stay down this time.   
  
"Maybe you should try to sleep."  
  
"Hurts too much."  
  
Hands rejoin.  
  
"Well, just relax."  
  
Snort. Stare towards the low light filtering through the doorway.  
  
"I should have a new name plaque put outside that door. 'Claudia Jean   
Cregg - Press Secretary and The Kiss of Death.'"  
  
"You're not that bad."  
  
Strangled laugh. Free hand picks at edge of blanket. Analyse.  
  
"It mightn't have been anything more than an attraction due to circumstance.   
We mightn't have been able to stand each other back in normality. But   
there was something there when I kis..."  
  
Feel his hand tighten in comfort. Keep focus on doorway, don't look   
at him.  
  
"I barely knew him. I don't know what his childhood was like, did he   
always want to be--am I mourning him or what might have been?"  
  
Bite lip.   
  
"Opportunities lost."  
  
Damn him. Don't cry.  
  
"You're allowed to grieve."  
  
Don't touch cheek. Don't breach that wall.  
  
"Let it go."  
  
Shafts of watery light shimmer in front of eyes. His mantra distorts   
through the mind-crushing pressure. Can't breathe. Can't cry out.   
  
I can't...  
  
He seizes both my hands and bursts through.  
  
I trust enough to let go.  
  
***  
  
Surface.  
  
Dawn outside window. Vacuum cleaner in distance. Door closed.  
  
Reach for lamp. Squint as adjust to the brightness. Rise slowly to the   
vertical. Head stuffed with wool.  
  
Look around. Chair back in front of desk. Trash can missing. Glasses,   
bottle of water, box of crackers and open pill bottle on low table.  
  
A folder.  
  
Post-it note on cover.  
  
Reach. Put glasses on and stare down at writing.  
  
'CJ, Go home. Take a sick day. This may help answer some of your   
questions. - D.'  
  
Hands shake as open folder.   
  
Those blue eyes stare back.  
  
Swallow.  
  
Thumb through copies of education and employment records, letters of   
recommendation, transcriptions of interviews with colleagues and family,   
a handwritten note of thanks from his mother --  
  
An article.   
  
Set for publication in the next weekend edition of the Post.  
  
An eulogy to him and the Secret Service.  
  
Brush eyes. Begin to read.   
  
Simon Patrick Donovan, born April 1, 1954.  
  
An April Fool's baby.  
  
Oh, Simon.  
  
High School Track Star, 100 yard dash.  
  
Lean back against the couch.  
  
Get to know him.  
  
***  
  
"Hello?"  
  
"Sorry, Danny. I forgot it was still early."  
  
"CJ. It's okay. You home?"  
  
"Just about to leave the office. Thank you for being here last night."  
  
"That's what friends are for."  
  
"The article is beautiful."  
  
"I thought you needed to read it now."  
  
"Are you doing anything for dinner tonight?"  
  
"I'll bring my notebook."  
  
"Don't." 


End file.
